


The Closure That I Lost

by DefaltManifesto



Series: Impossible Is Nothing [1]
Category: Black Panther (2018), Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Crying, Cultural Differences, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Explicit Sexual Content, Internal Conflict, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Politics, Reconciliation, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Transgenerational Trauma
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-04
Updated: 2018-07-04
Packaged: 2019-06-05 09:17:44
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,727
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15167519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DefaltManifesto/pseuds/DefaltManifesto
Summary: M'Baku and T'Challa try to move their countries forward, but history will not be ignored.





	The Closure That I Lost

**Author's Note:**

> All the thanks to Himewarrior926 for doing some edits on this and making sure this fic wasn't a total mess. I've been working on this forever - I wrote for five hours last night to finish it. Comments would be loved so dearly. Thanks for reading. Fic title from Small Red Boy by AJJ. Series title from Fighter by Patty Monroe feat. Amanda Palmer. Find me on twitter @ Defaltmanifesto

“It’s not an even trade.”

“Then what do you suggest?” Frustration bleeds into T’Challa’s voice.

As far as M’Baku is concerned, he’s already won purely because he gets to hear that tone of voice. But, he is here for his people.

“We do not want vibranium. We have our sacred wood and having a material that is just as strong is pointless,” M’Baku says with a casual wave of his hand.

“Your sacred wood has vibranium in it but the properties are different, they can do-“

"There is no vibranium in the wood,” M’Baku says. He doesn’t say it out of any sincerely held religious belief, but rather to watch T’Challa’s expression as he debates engaging him in a tangential argument. Of course, their own scientists had discovered generations ago that their wood was strengthened by centuries of absorbing vibranium through the soil but tradition was tradition. “Books. The palace library.”

“What?”

“We will trade you our wood for access to your physical and digital libraries,” M’Baku says.

Another king would have been suspicious, but after a brief moment of silence, understanding enters T’Challa’s eyes.

“Our histories. You’d like to compare them,” T’Challa says.

“Our scholars would like to yes,” M’Baku says, relaxing back into his chair.

T’Challa grins, a teasing look in his eyes. “Oh no, you want to know for yourself. You cannot fool me M’Baku. You are no brutish warrior no matter what you play at.” He glances around the room they sit in. It’s M’Baku’s personal study, the walls covered floor to ceiling in bookshelves with texts from centuries past and more modern fictional literature as well.

M’Baku waves a dismissive hand. “I take interest in history the way leaders should but I am no scholar. Our academics have been eager to access your files since our talks have begun and given that we have no need nor desire for your vibranium this seems like a smart move for all parties involved.”

“And what about your records? Will we have access to them?” T’Challa asks.

His gut reaction is to say no – after all the whole of Wakanda will have access to their wood. They don’t need more from Jabari. But T’Challa is no fool. He’s the first to want a true unity between their people, and that can’t be done when only one side has access to the full story.

“We start here,” M’Baku says, voice solemn. “While you have done much to show you are not like kings of the past, I need to see more before I trust you with this.”

“But you trust us with your physical resources?” T’Challa asks.

M’Baku smiles. “My King, all the vibranium and sacred wood in the world can’t match the power centuries of history and philosophy can give a man. This will do for now.”

 

-.-

 

T’Challa is right about his assessment of M’Baku. He spends an equal amount of time reading as he does training, consuming literature of all kinds through both physical text and online. Once granted access to the digital libraries of the rest of Wakanda, he spends several days in his study pouring over ancient philosophy from before the Jabari had split from Wakanda as a whole.

The roots of the Jabari tribe’s customs are clear in the early works. Unity over individual need, but still independent enough to remain adaptable to the changing tides of time. The split becomes apparent in the texts a hundred years younger. The Jabari discover the mountain, the Sacred Tree. They see it as a sign of a need to look to tradition for guidance but the Wakandan philosophers prefer looking to the future and what could be. He switches to the academic texts, the written histories of the conflicts. In the simple facts of the battles and civil war run the threads of the two types of thought that had created the fissure in the first place. A line of thought that still holds him apart from T’Challa.

“Hello, warrior brute.”

T’Challa’s voice startles him. He knocks his glasses from his face and leans back in his chair, arms folding across his chest as he struggles to retain his image. T’Challa smiles and sits on the corner of his desk.

"I did knock. Several times in fact,” T’Challa says. “Just some light reading for the definitely not a scholar then?”

M’Baku makes a disgruntled noise and swipes the screen he’d been reading on away. “What can I do for you? I assume you came this far for a reason?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says, straightening and moving to take a seat across from him. “I wanted to see what you thought of our libraries.”

"They’re enlightening. The Jabari lost much in the way of early records when we first retreated to the mountains. What stories we do have were committed to memory and passed down by oral tradition,” M’Baku says. He watches as T’Challa leans in with interest, as if he’s not even aware he’s doing so. “Getting the other side, seeing the written accounts and other versions of how and why the Jabari left is good. Even if the truth is lost among the biases on both sides.”

“And what do you think the truth is?” T’Challa asks.

M’Baku doesn’t let the surprise show on his face. He’d assume his words would bore him, which was a foolish assumption on his part given how many times T’Challa had broken his idea that he’s just a spoiled royal punk.

“I think fighting wars over ideas and getting innocent people killed is stupid,” M’Baku says. “You fight war in defense. You don’t kill because someone follows tradition. You don’t kill because someone does not.”

"So, our ancestors were…stupid,” T’Challa says, head tilting to the side. “That’s your assessment?”

“The short version,” M’Baku says with a short laugh. “I always thought there was something more to it than ideology, a slight of some kind, but no. We broke apart over an inability to understand the value of tradition and forward thinking being blended together.”

“A lot of conflict could have been avoided, yes. Centuries of it,” T’Challa says, voice soft and eyes warm and it startled M’Baku out of his false sense of security.

“Do not mistake my frustration with our ancestors with a willingness to forget the failures of the Golden Tribe over the past generations,” M’Baku says, voice sharp.

“M’Baku, I would not. I could not.” T’Challa sighs and walks to the other side of the room as he slips his hands into his pockets. “My father was not the man I thought he was. Neither were my other ancestors. They abandoned the Jabari and our brothers and sisters abroad like N’Jadaka because they thought they knew best and would accept no conversation.”

“Kings rarely do.”

“But you do.” T’Challa turns to face him, expression serious. “The other tribes…we work together for the benefit of Wakanda but at the end of the day we are but five people deciding the fate of the rest.” He shakes his head and resumes walking again. “We do our best to listen, but I believe we never truly have. But that is not how you rule, is it?”

M’Baku stares at him, torn between the instinct to protect his people from the prying eyes of a country that abandoned them and a desire to make T’Challa understand. He settles for something in the middle.

“The Jabari need a leader yes, and yes that leader is one of royal blood though they may be challenged,” M’Baku says. “The leader exists to make the hard choices and live with the consequences, but they rely on the people of guidance. All the people. Do you know your people, T’Challa?”

T’Challa looks to the window. “I wish I could say I did but after what happened, seeing how many were willing to follow N’Jadaka…”

“They did not follow him in respect of tradition,” M’Baku says. “Oh they’ll use it as an excuse but they followed him because they believed in his mission over yours and they felt finally as though someone had listened to them.”

“How are you so confident that you know your people then? That if presented with a man who would lead them to war against those they hate they would not abandon your side?”

There’s pain in T’Challa’s voice, pain he wishes to _soothe_ of all things. M’Baku stands.

“Go get some rest,” M’Baku says. “Tomorrow morning, meet me here 4 AM.”

He expects for T’Challa to balk. Instead, he nods.

“I will.”

 

-.-

 

T’Challa meets him dressed in casual clothing the next morning, matching M’Baku’s own style. They greet one another with nods and M’Baku leads him out of the palace and onto the mountain trail. The snow is cold, but they’re dressed warm enough for now. As they walk, M’Baku greets the warriors who patrol the path, asking after their families, their pets, their training. And it’s not just out of courtesy. Some of them he counts as genuine friends.

They train at the summit, near where T’Challa had been buried. It’s fun to put one another through their paces and M’Baku can’t help but be pleased when he learns T’Challa ends his exercise in meditation as well. From there, it’s back down the mountain to the city itself.

“You truly don’t mind tramping in the snow day in and day out?” T’Challa asks as they head for M’Baku’s favorite breakfast place.

“What are your legs too weak?” M’Baku asks with a wide grin and his heart beats a little faster when T’Challa ducks his head with an embarrassed smile. “Come. Sarani makes the best coffee.”

The day continues in much the same fashion. M’Baku watches T’Challa absorb the experience, careful eyes cataloguing the way M’Baku interacts differently with the people they come into contact with. He can tell though that T’Challa doesn’t realize this is his normal routine. He isn’t doing this for show.

They end the afternoon at a hut built of sacred wood on the far edge of the city over-looking a cliff that plunges into a deep-frozen river valley. M’Baku stops a few yards away from the door.

“This is a test,” M’Baku says. “You are going to meet the woman who trained me in combat. Do not take this lightly.”

“M’Baku, I have not taken anything you have cared to show me today lightly,” T’Challa says.

They aren’t the words of a king or politician. T’Challa wears an earnest and open expression, not hiding a thing, and M’Baku thinks perhaps he made the right choice in trusting T’Challa with their final stop. Perhaps he was not like his father.

"M’Baku! Stop standing in the snow like a fool. Bring the King or whatever he is inside!” Andiswa shouts.

“One moment!” M’Baku shouts back. He meets T’Challa’s eyes with a grin. “You want to be King of the Jabari as well? You should know what you’re getting into.”

“I feel less like this is a test and more like this is one of Shuri’s experiments,” T’Challa says as he follows him to the door.

Andiswa opens the door and lets them into her small but functional home. There’s a roaring fire on the far wall, a bed to the left, a kitchen table in the middle, and the kitchen to the right. On either side of the hearth are weapon racks carrying everything from staffs to spears to hatchets. Andiswa herself is a tall woman, thin and wiry and if it weren’t for the wrinkles that crawl across her skin like bark, she could be mistaken for much younger. Bead-speckled silver braids are worked into a neat bun atop her head. She assesses them both with a sharp look before smiling.

“This is very good. Come sit,” she says.

They join her at the table and she pulls her colorful green robes tight around her shoulders. The heat of the fire makes sweat bead out on himself and T’Challa within minutes but M’Baku knows she can’t feel anything but a chill.

“So, we finally have the grandsons at the table willing to talk,” she says after a moment. “It’s about time.”

“I’m sorry it couldn’t have happened sooner,” T’Challa says. “M’Baku says you trained him growing up?”

“Him and the others who keep our oral traditions,” she says with a nod.

“Your grandfather killed all but her. If he’d succeeded in killing her, we would have lost all of our oral history,” M’Baku says.

 T’Challa straightens. “I am sorry.”

“Don’t be. His grandfather was stupid too. Wars are fought by two sides and it was not a conflict at the time where one side was in the right,” Andiswa says, gesturing at M’Baku and giving him a pointed look. He raises an eyebrow and she rolls her eyes before looking back at T’Challa. “Many of our stories and traditions are passed along orally and we’ve never recorded them. As such, it became tradition for those entrusted with the knowledge to be the strongest of fighters. We could not afford to lose what knowledge I had and I was yet too young to take on an apprentice, so we came to a truce.”

“Our histories…did not say that,” T’Challa says. “But there are many things in Wakanda’s history I do not know. It seems you are someone who I could speak to.”

“Perhaps,” she says, lifting one arm in a shrug. “In truth, I’m just pleased to see you two have no interest in renewing old conflicts.”

"There is a reason I opted to challenge him,” M’Baku says. “I’m not that hot-headed.”

“Oh, sure, not now,” Andiswa says then leans towards T’Challa. “I trained him well – he would never jeopardize a truce for pride now. Especially one where we lost so much.”

“Andiswa.” M’Baku gives her a warning look, surprised she’s so loose with her words.

"What? What was lost?” T’Challa asks.

“Apparently M’Baku does not think you are ready to know,” Andiswa says. “As usual, he thinks he knows best but he will eventually come to see I was right.”

T’Challa frowns. “With all due respect, M’Baku has been gracious enough and I am more than happy to wait until he is comfortable. After all, it is not just him. It all of the Jabari. I’m not going to jeopardize uniting our people because I got impatient.”

“Thank you for proving my point,” Andiswa says. “But fine I won’t push.”

“I do have a question though,” T’Challa says. “You trained M’Baku. Does that mean he has these traditions and stories memorized as well?”

“It does,” she says.

T’Challa grins. “What a scholar he turns out to be.”

“Oh he loves the stories-“

“Well this was a pleasant visit, but we must be going,” M’Baku says.

“Ah yes, best run along before I embarrass him,” Andiswa says. “But come back soon. I get bored in my retirement.”

“Of course,” T’Challa says.

 

-.-

 

Back in the study, M’Baku feels anything but calm. T’Challa had remained silent on the walk back and while M’Baku wasn’t one to fill the silence with endless chatter he did find himself consumed with thoughts of what T’Challa was ruminating over. He’d been curious to see what Andiswa’s assessment of him was. She’d been a great mentor to him and still was in many ways, so he valued her opinion even if he thought it was far too soon for T’Challa to know the truth of their respective grandfathers.

“At first, I thought you were just showing that you talk to your people,” T’Challa says from where he stands by the window. “But it’s more than that. They aren’t afraid to talk to you, really talk, even when I was there. They said what was on their mind.”

“Yes,” M’Baku says. “And why do you think I do it?”

T’Challa turns back towards him and takes a seat across from him again. “It’s trust building. You said before that the reason the Border Tribe had no problem following N’Jadaka was because they felt as though they’d finally been heard. Whether he intended it or not, my father left them feeling as though they weren’t being listened to or respected and when I failed to bring back Klaue, it was a similar feeling.”

M’Baku nods. “Do you know what happened before I challenged you?”

"You spoke to your people,” T’Challa says.

“Yes, and do you know how many of my people wanted to restart a war?” M’Baku watches T’Challa’s expression carefully. “The majority. I said no and instead challenged you in ritual combat and when I lost, my people were satisfied because they knew I had listened to their concerns and taken the best course of action. They trust my judgment even when they disagree. That is what makes the Jabari strong. That’s what can make Wakanda strong again. You’re going to need that if you expect to lead Wakanda through this transitional time intact.”

T’Challa looks away, then speaks as though to himself. “I cannot just surround myself with people I trust.”

M’Baku says nothing. He is not sure the words are meant for him.

 

-.-

 

T’Challa joins him at least once a week on his daily routine. Within a month, the Jabari have no problem bringing their complaints and ideas to him as well as M’Baku and M’Baku finds himself pleasantly surprised by T’Challa’s ability to navigate the different types of people they interact with. It’s not just a political savvy-ness. There’s nothing but honesty in his words, but even when he disagrees, the way he speaks and his ability to listen and respond warms the people to him.

Before long, M’Baku agrees with Andiswa to let T’Challa learn their oral history as long as she stays away from the more important things. He knows from experience memorizing the stories are hard. More than once he notices T’Challa mumbling under his breath before cursing and starting over and his dedication to truly learn…it’s not just something M’Baku likes, he actually finds it...arousing.

He becomes distracted on the days they train together in the mountain snow or in the Wakandan palace gym. He’d always been partial to men and women built like himself. It’s a new experience, enjoying the way T’Challa’s wiry form twists and turns as he works through different routines. More than once T’Challa catches him looking and gives him a slow smile that makes M’Baku’s stomach swoop in a way he doesn’t wish to acknowledge. He does not do romance.

Except. Maybe now he does.

“Are we going to dance around this?” T’Challa asks from where he sits on the gym floor, stretching to reach his toes and holding it.

M’Baku wipes his face with a towel to hide his expression. “Dance around what?”

"The fact that you look at me like you can’t decide if you want to fuck me into the floor or cuddle me,” T’Challa says.

"You Wakandans have no manners,” M’Baku says.

“M’Baku, please. I should not have teased. We should discuss this,” T’Challa says.

“What is there to discuss,” M’Baku says, turning to face him. “You are King of Wakanda. I am the King of the Jabari.”

T’Challa leans back out of the stretch, bracing himself back on his hands. “As long as I name an heir, the Council could care less about who warms my bed.”

M’Baku considers his next few words and then decides that if it’s bluntness T’Challa wants, that’s what he’ll deliver. “I do not wish to just warm someone’s bed. Especially not when that someone is you.”

The words do seem to take T’Challa by surprise. “I…feel the same way. I just didn’t think this went beyond physical attraction for you considering our history.”

“We’re not our fathers,” M’Baku says. “The things that make you different from past kings are what I find attractive.”

T’Challa gets to his feet and steps closer. The concern in his eyes seems odd and misplaced for the conversation.

“There is one thing,” T’Challa says. “You don’t…trust me.”

M’Baku frowns. “I do. These last few weeks have done much to build that.”

T’Challa nods but it doesn’t seem to be in agreement. “Perhaps you trust me as much as you can and if that’s so, I can be comfortable with that. But it is hard to believe you trust me when you withhold knowledge of our grandfathers from me.”

M’Baku turns away but T’Challa catches his arm and tugs him back. He jerks his arm away but T’Challa holds fast.

“You misunderstand,” T’Challa says. “I do not blame you for not wanting to tell me something that is obviously deeply painful for you and your people, but I do not want you to lie and say you trust me when you don’t. That is not fair to me.”

There are a thousand retorts at the tip of his tongue about fairness and their tribes but M’Baku bites them back, aware that they’re born only of anger and not rationality.

"What is unclear to me,” M’Baku says. “Is how you don’t already know. I read your histories and there’s nothing of the true nature of the last conflict, only that a treaty was made and yet when I looked, there’s no treaty you have for viewing.”

“A great many things were hidden from me by my father. I can only imagine what Azzuri hid from him,” T’Challa says. “Trust me when I say I have no idea. I am sure I could find a way to override whatever system was put in place to hide the truth, but I’ve never had reason to until lately and I wanted to respect your boundaries.”

M’Baku shakes his head and gives a long sigh. “Oh T’Challa. I should not be surprised and yet here I am stunned by your absolute refusal to behave like the rest of the world. So, let’s agree that I do not trust you as completely as I could. I respect you. And I would very much enjoy fucking you as well.”

T’Challa smiles, the tension broken. “Then let’s save the more serious talk for later.”

 

-.-

 

T’Challa’s bedroom does not look like that of a luxurious prince, but the bed feels amazing regardless. Or maybe it’s just because he has T’Challa spread out underneath him as he presses their lips together in deep probing kisses as they grind against one another. He’d definitely fantasized about more. Now that he’s here, he can’t calm himself down for more than this.

With a groan, T’Challa’s head flops back against the pillow and he curses. M’Baku bites at the base of his neck in the hollow of his throat, gentle at first, but when T’Challa’s hips twitch up and his cock drools out more pre-come he bites again, harder. T’Challa goes rigid beneath him, fingers digging into M’Baku’s shoulders. For a moment, M’Baku isn’t sure if he pushed too far and he’s about to pull back, but then T’Challa grips the back of his head and holds him there.

“Yes, more of that…”

M’Baku obliges. He sucks at the bite mark once and then pulls back enough that he can slide down, pressing a kiss to T’Challa’s right pec before biting just above his right nipple. T’Challa curses, cock jerking against M’Baku’s stomach where it’s pinned between them. M’Baku soothes this bite with his tongue as well before pulling back and sitting back on his heels. He wraps a hand around T’Challa’s dick and gives it a slow stroke as he looks him over before finally settling on his face so their eyes meet.

“What is it that you like? The pain? The dominance?”

T’Challa licks his lips. “Neither. It’s being marked.”

M’Baku nods and then ducks down for another kiss, this one slow and sweet even as he tightens his grip on T’Challa’s cock. He moves back down and bites a mark to mirror the other one. T’Challa’s gasps out his name and then chokes on a whine when M’Baku dips lower to slick his tongue over a tight nipple. He glances up and sees the blown out look in T’Challa’s eyes and decides to see just how worked up he can get him.

He repositions himself so T’Challa can’t grind up against him and then takes his time alternating between harsh bites and then working over his nipples with gentle fingers and a soft tongue. He expects T’Challa to get impatient. Instead, he goes limp and trembles beneath him, hands fisting in the sheets. Perhaps being marked is the main part of it but M’Baku has a feeling T’Challa likes the dominance element as well. He files the idea away for later and pulls back.

“So…I take it you’re a chest man,” T’Challa says after a moment, eyes still dazed.

“I’m more of a whatever gets my partner going man,” M’Baku says, flicking his thumb over one of T’Challa’s oversensitive nipples.

T’Challa’s cock jerks and M’Baku takes pity on him, wrapping a firm hand around him and stroking. That’s all it takes to make T’Challa come. M’Baku strokes him through it, drinking in the arch of his back, the way his breath leaves him in a rush and his chest heaves as he takes another. He grabs the lube from where T’Challa points when he asks while T’Challa recovers, then slicks his own hand and grabs his cock only for T’Challa to sit up and knock his hands away to stroke him.

M’Baku grunts and ducks his head. The angle is awkward but it’s worth it to feel T’Challa’s lips against his as he fucks up into his slick grasp. When he opens his eyes and pulls back from the kiss, the intense look in T’Challa’s eyes makes his skin shiver in a way he doesn’t want to think too hard about. When he comes, T’Challa kisses him, muffling whatever noise he’d been about to make. He appreciates the thought. This level of vulnerability hadn’t been expected and getting to keep at least something to himself was nice.

“Fuck that’s hot,” T’Challa says, a slow smile creeping on his lips when he looks down.

M’Baku follows his gaze and his stomach swoops with arousal when he sees his come splattered over T’Challa’s cock.

“Maybe I’m into this marking thing too,” M’Baku says after a moment.

T’Challa laughs.

 

-.-

 

Not much changes except that they end up staying one week at a time in one another’s respective palaces. They don’t hide that they share a bed nor do they proclaim it.

Nakia showing up isn’t a surprise. The only surprise is that she waited nearly a month before doing so. She enters his study when his back is turned, and if he hadn’t trained himself to be aware of his surroundings in the place he considered himself safest, he might not have heard her. As it was, he turns to see her walk in before the door clicks shut.

“You got past the guards,” he says.

“I am a spy. It would be pretty bad if I couldn’t,” she says. “We need to talk.”

“Is this where you threaten me about hurting T’Challa because if it’s all the same to you, we can skip that,” M’Baku says. He swipes the screen he’d been reading away and walks across the study towards her.

“I wouldn’t do something so juvenile,” Nakia says. “May I sit?”

M’Baku gestures at the empty chair and sits at the edge of his desk. “So why are you here then?”

“To tell you to stop stringing him along,” Nakia says as she sits, folding one leg over the other. “T’Challa is a good man and when he cares deeply, he doesn’t care for his own needs like he should. He wants the world for you and your people not just because he finds himself in a relationship with you but because he is a good person.”

“Is there a point to stating facts I’m well aware of?” M’Baku asks.

“T’Challa will wait forever in hopes that one day you’ll trust him, and if you have no intention of ever giving him that then you need to stop this now,” Nakia says.

“You don’t even know what you’re asking,” M’Baku says. Frustration boils within him at the accusation that he has no intention of having a reciprocal relationship with T’Challa, but when Nakia’s eyes meet his, full of fierce and protective love…well. “I will speak with T’Challa on this. Not you.”

Nakia stands. “That’s all I ask. And you should know something M’Baku.”

M’Baku folds his arms across his chest, grinning. “And what is that?”

“The River Tribe spies see more than you know. I don’t know _what_ you’re hiding but I know it’s up the abandoned mountain trail through doors that cannot be opened.”

M’Baku watches her leave and turns back to the books.

 

-.-

 

“I did not think Jabariland could get any colder,” T’Challa says.

“You need more fat on your bones, that’s all,” M’Baku says.

Despite his fake complaints, T’Challa keeps pace with him easily as they travel along the old mountain path that hasn’t been walked since Andiswa was a young girl eighty years ago. M’Baku knows deep down that Nakia was right. T’Challa extended him endless patience. He’d shown willingness to respect M’Baku’s desire for secrecy even when he knew he could find a way to uncover the information he wanted. M’Baku owed him the same respect. The same trust.

They come to a stop at a wide plateau that sits between three peaks. M’Baku has only been here once before, just before his last rite of passage which would allow him to become the leader of the Jabari. Andiswa had sat with him in the snow and together they had meditated before the great stone doors they stood before now. And she had taught him what she swore he would one day need to know to open the doors once more. Fairy tales as far as M’Baku was concerned. Things are different now though, and perhaps even if not in his life time, there was hope for his descendants.

“What is this?” T’Challa asks.

“What do you think?” M’Baku asks.

He watches as T’Challa steps closer to the stone doors. Tree roots penetrate the surface only to curve back in and upon closer reflection, M’Baku can see T’Challa’s realizations that the  odd shaped rocks are not rocks at all but tree branches jutting out from the twisted mountain peaks.

“The Sacred Tree? But it was destroyed,” T’Challa says, turning to face him.

“No. It was locked away,” M’Baku says. He meets T’Challa’s eyes. “Are you sure you want to know this history?”

Without even a moment of hesitation, T’Challa nods. “I lived so much of my life not knowing the truth and it almost got me killed and my country destroyed. I would not risk the same again because the truth is hard to hear.”

M’Baku nods. “The last war between the Jabari and Wakanda was not so much a war as a single battle carried out by Azzuri in retaliation for the repeated skirmishes the Jabari were instigating along the border. He believed the Jabari were testing the waters for war and he was right, they were. So instead of allowing it to come to a head and have civil war break out for the first time in centuries, he decided to hamstring us the best way he knew how.”

The words come to the mind easy, beaten into his head by Andiswa’s persistent training. Speaking them aloud…is harder.

“He knew the Jabari’s reliance on oral tradition was its greatest weakness, especially since it was that which they treasured above all else. He came here to this mountain top one morning when the storytellers were training their apprentices. My grandfather, N’Tando, was at the palace. Azzuri fell on them and while they were our fiercest warriors, they could not stand up to the raw strength of the Black Panther. Andiswa fled at her master’s request to bring N’Tando back with her as he was the only one who had the strength to match the Black Panther.

“When Andiswa returned with N’Tando, Azzuri stood before the doors that led to the Sacred Tree with the bodies of every storyteller in the tribe at his feet. Andiswa in her grief, attacked. Azzuri restrained her easily, the last of the storytellers, and gave N’Tando a choice. Lay down the mantle of the White Gorilla and seal the Sacred Tree away or lose the last link to the past the Jabari possessed. Without the White Gorilla, the Jabari would never dare wage war against Wakanda.

“N’Tando chose his people. He returned his supernatural strength and abilities to the Sacred Tree and sealed the doors so that no other Jabari could ever think to walk the path of war again.”

M’Baku stops, then raises a hand to his eyes to brush away the tears that had come unbidden to him. It is not his sadness, not his grief. As Andiswa told it, stories of the Jabari, at least the ones like this, carried the sorrow of the people lost in each word and so the one who channeled the story would channel their emotion as well. He supposed a few tears shed on the ground where too much blood had been spilled was acceptable. When he turns towards T’Challa, he sees the feelings in his chest reflected back at him. Then anger. Then grief once more.

T’Challa crosses the space between them and M’Baku takes a step back, not prepared for what T’Challa might have in mind. Whatever he expected, T’Challa grabbing his hand in both of his before falling to his knees is not it.

“My father told me not to kneel for I am a king,” T’Challa whispers, voice loud in the snowy stillness of the mountaintop. “But he was wrong. There are some things a king should kneel for. M’Baku…I am sorry for what we have done to your people.”

The words, the gesture, it all feels like too much. It feels like it should be an empty gesture, but M’Baku knows T’Challa and knows that he could not lie about something of this magnitude if he tried. He tugs T’Challa to his feet and draws him close, pressing their foreheads together for a moment before hugging him.

“I have told you all this T’Challa because I trust you to right the wrongs of your people. I trust you to do right by the Jabari,” M’Baku says, voice tight with emotion against T’Challa’s ear.

“I will M’Baku. I promise.” T’Challa grips at him with grasping fingers that curl around the back of his neck. “I promise.”

 

-.-

 

That night, M’Baku finds it impossible to share T’Challa’s bed even for sleep. Instead, he roams the palace halls. In many ways, he’d been fooled he supposes. T’Challa’s commitment to peace, his willingness to bring the Jabari to the table, it was all very good and even genuine. But on the mountain, it’d been impossible to ignore the truth of their history. M’Baku wasn’t sure the truth had even sunk in for him.

“May I join you?”

T’Challa’s voice is soft from the door to his study. He looks tired, wrapped as he is in a blanket he must’ve pulled from M’Baku’s bed.

“I would prefer to be alone,” M’Baku says from where he sits.

T’Challa looks disappointed but he nods his understanding. He pauses just as he’s about leave. “Just…one thing has been bugging me, if I may?”

M’Baku dips his head in a nod.

“The White Gorilla…that is not just a metaphor for the sake of lore, is it? The Jabari once had something to rival the Black Panther, didn’t they?” T’Challa asks.

“Yes. They did.”

“But you would sacrifice that for your history?”

“I did not make that sacrifice, N’Tando did.” M’Baku doesn’t need to say that if it had been him, he’d have made the same choice.

“But…” T’Challa stops and gives a tired smile. “I’m sorry. I said one question, I did not mean to turn it into an interrogation. Rest well.”

"Wait.” M’Baku winces as soon as the word leaves his mouth, cursing his momentary weakness. “I…would have you stay. If you want. Just none of this questioning if you don’t mind.”

T’Challa’s smile is gentle but it doesn’t feel patronizing. Instead of taking the seat near him, T’Challa slides into his lap, legs thrown over one armrest and the rest of himself curled into M’Baku’s chest. M’Baku can’t help but chuckle at the ridiculousness of their positions. It’s comforting though. He wraps an arm around T’Challa’s waist, thumb rubbing against his hip. They stay that way for a while, lost in their own thoughts.

There’s a rage in his chest at war with a deep need to protect the man in his arms. Not that T’Challa needed protecting. His people deserved justice and retribution for what they’d been robbed of, and he understood why so many had lusted for war. He had opted for the challenge instead. Of course, he could have taken up the mantle of the White Gorilla and led his people into battle, violating the treaty that Azzuri had buried. The burden of being a story teller was the wisdom to know where that path led.

But just because he knew war wouldn’t help didn’t mean he should be here, holding the king of a nation that had massacred innocents in the name of peace. His grip on T’Challa’s hip tightens. The breath against his neck hitches.

“M’Baku…what is wrong?”

“I am trying to reconcile my people’s need for justice and the fact that I am with you like this,” M’Baku says.

“It would be easier if we could hate each other, wouldn’t it?” T’Challa lets out a slow breath. “If you cannot be with me, I understand and do not begrudge you for that. You are willing to work with me and unite our people – considering the circumstances, I understand if that’s all you can give now or ever.”

“It’s not that simple.”

T’Challa laughs. “Nothing ever is…but what if we destroyed the treaty? Made a new one?”

M’Baku’s heart pounds like a drum in his chest, ticking against his ribs with frantic urgency. “You ask me that here? Late at night, curled in your enemy’s arms, is not the best time to make such rash decisions. You’re a terrible king.”

“Don’t be like that,” T’Challa says. He leans back, resting against the arm rest so he can look at M’Baku. “You’re not my enemy. I hope you don’t see me as yours after all of this.”

“Of course I don’t,” M’Baku says. “But that doesn’t erase centuries of conflict.”

T’Challa’s lips press together in a thin line as he thinks. “My father and grandfather compromised their morality for what they thought was the good of the country. In doing so, they exposed Wakanda to the threat of an abandoned boy who became a killer to survive and cut itself off from people who could be true allies. I do not want to make those mistakes. So. M’Baku. Will you draft a new treaty with me tomorrow?”

M’Baku stares at him, his brain trying and failing to process T’Challa’s ready acceptance of the situation. “I would have the same power as you.”

“Assuming whatever process grants you power is the same, yes, it would,” T’Challa says, but doesn’t object.

"The Tribal Council would never approve.”

“I will deal with the Tribal Council. M’Baku…our people can never truly unite when a wound this deep stands between us,” T’Challa says. “Please think on it.”

“What about who comes after me?” M’Baku asks. “If you are so confident you can trust me, fine. But how can you trust that some future king won’t decide to start the conflict again and hurt you with that power?”

“Any future king who wishes to bring harm to Wakanda with that power won’t be stopped by a treaty,” T’Challa says. “M’Baku, I am committed to this. Not just to you, but to your people. I will not hamstring our descendants because of fear of what could happen. I will not be that sort of man.”

“If you feel that way tomorrow, we can talk it over,” M’Baku says.

“Good.” T’Challa grins. “Now, come back to bed.”

 

-.-

           

The next morning, true to his word, T’Challa finds him in his study.

“It took Shuri all night, but she was able to find it,” T’Challa says, drawing up a screen and then sliding it through the air towards M’Baku.

M’Baku grabs it and enlarges the scanned image. It’s a simple treaty, promising no war, threats, or border skirmishes in exchange for the Jabari sealing away the Sacred Tree and the White Gorilla. Included was an agreement to allow the farming of the sacred wood within the mountain trees, allowing the Jabari remains self-sufficient if separated. At the bottom are two unmistakable signatures.

“Where did Azzuri bury this?” M’Baku asks.

“In many password protected folders. She had to hack into our own system to access it once she found it,” T’Challa says with a shake of his head. “I think you should bury me in the sand again so I may have some words with my grandfather.”

The words are joking but M’Baku can hear the pain in them. That, of all things, is what soothes the rampant storm of conflicting emotions that had been filling him since they first went to bed together. T’Challa is on his side. He’s said he was but M’Baku couldn’t bring himself to believe the words. Somehow now, with a half joking declaration, it hits home.

"Why are you looking at me like that?” T’Challa asks, that slow, sleepy look entering his eyes. It’s a look that isn’t what it seems.

“I’m just realizing something,” M’Baku says, chest growing tight.

“We were having delicate political negotiations and you’re looking at me like you want to drag me to your bedroom or a secluded corner,” T’Challa says.

“Perhaps it’s because I find the idea of you truly caring both comforting and arousing,” M’Baku says with more nonchalance than he feels.

“Well we will have to celebrate properly once we get a proper treaty done,” T’Challa says.

M’Baku grins.

 

-.-

 

Over the course of the day, M’Baku oscillates between anger and something close to giddiness. The rage is foolish. There’s nowhere for it to go, because they’re working at righting the wrongs, but the burden he’s carried his whole life, taken from his father after he carried it, won’t leave peacefully. T’Challa remains patient.

By the time they’re done they have a detailed treaty outlining the release of The Sacred Tree and the allowance of the leader of the Jabari to once more possess the White Gorilla. Along with it is a commitment to peace by both tribes and a seat at the Tribal Council for the Jabari. All in all, it’s a good treaty. It will undo years on animosity and over time M’Baku hopes will result in lasting peace long after they’re dead. Despite that, he feels doubt.

“The Tribal Council will never agree,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa’s fingers graze his arm as he walks passed him towards the desk, dragging the screen with him as he goes.

“I will deal with them, I told you,” T’Challa says.

“You can’t just overrule their wishes,” M’Baku says. “That’s how you ended up with a near civil war on your hands.”

"That was not my plan,” T’Challa says. He knocks the screen down and leans forward on the desk. “It will take effort, but I will make them all come around on their own if you’re willing to extend me that patience.”

M’Baku sighs and sits down in the chair, sprawling out in it as he rubs his temple. “Politics.”

“Yes, I hate it too. But like you, I play the game well,” T’Challa says.

“I am terrible with politics,” M’Baku says, unable to help the sulky tone in his voice.       

“You don’t fool me, M’Baku,” T’Challa says.

“Let me try again. I’m terrible at politics with other leaders,” M’Baku says. “Navigating my own leadership and making sure the people’s needs are met even if their wants aren’t is something I find fulfilling.”

T’Challa shakes his head but he’s smiling. “I’m going to see Andiswa this afternoon and then I must return home. Can we meet tomorrow at the Tribal Council meeting?”

M’Baku’s eyes narrow. “I thought you were dealing with them.”

“I am,” T’Challa says as he gets to his feet.

“Fine.”

T’Challa presses a kiss to his lips and leaves.

 

-.-

 

M’Baku waits until he’s been notified that T’Challa has headed back to Wakanda before making the trek to Andiswa’s. While much of his conflicting emotions had been soothed by T’Challa’s commitment to correcting what had been done, he still feel the need for guidance. His own father and he had never been particularly close. They did not confide in one another and when he’d died, M’Baku hadn’t mourned long. They’d been like strangers, grief and rage holding them apart.

Andiswa had filled that presence easily and M’Baku is sure that the only reason he’s had success as a king is because of the skills she’d taught him. He needs that guidance now more than ever. He finds her standing along the cliff near her home, working slowly through warm up exercises he knows as muscle memory thanks to her training. Without a word, he joins her in the snow. They work their way through the forms and with each slow breath in and out, the storm in M’Baku’s chest calms a little bit more. By the time they’re done, he thinks he can talk rationally.

“I could tell by your face this wasn’t a cordial visit,” Andiswa says as she leads him back into her home. The fire, as always, roars. “You told T’Challa the truth, didn’t you?”

“Yes,” M’Baku says. “He’s taken a treaty we drafted to undo the damage to the Tribal Council.”

Andiswa sits at the table and pulls the blanket that had been draped over the back tight around her shoulders. “So why do you look as though you want to wage war on anyone who looks at you the wrong way?”

“T’Challa is here every day,” M’Baku says. “Has he told you anything?”

“What that you’re in love with each other? Not explicitly,” Andiswa says.

“What.”

Andiswa raises an eyebrow. “What, did you think the two of you were just messing around? You should see the way you stare at him.”

“I don’t…” Well. He did. He couldn’t dispute that point. “I disrespect our people if I pursue this.”

“T’Challa is a fine man and a fine king. He’s done more than any other king before him to learn our ways so that he can be a proper king to us,” Andiswa says, voice sharp. “You cannot help your feelings, M’Baku. Even if you could, you disrespect no one by feeling the way you do about this man.”

M’Baku looks down, chastened. “I’ve been talking myself in circles for weeks over this.”

“Good. It’s because you’re a good king who would put aside his own happiness if the people asked for it,” she says. “But I’m telling you now that no one is asking that of you. Our people have welcomed T’Challa as much as he has welcomed us.”

“Thank you, Andiswa. I do…care very deeply for him. More than I want to admit,” he says, feeling himself flush of all things.

“Take one more piece of advice from me,” Andiswa says. “Go to the Tribal Council meeting. There is something you need to see.”

“T’Challa said the same thing.” M’Baku’s eyes narrow. “What did you do?”

Andiswa laughs and flaps a hand at him. “So distrusting. Just go.”

 

-.-

 

The Tribal Council is not happy to see him. T’Challa, of course, is.

“I know you did not want to come,” T’Challa says, voice soft as he leads him to a chair beside the River Tribe leader, Khuzani. “But I am happy you are here.

"Andiswa insisted,” M’Baku says as he sits.

T’Challa’s expression turns bashful before he moves away to sit on his throne. He shares a look with his mother to his right before turning towards the Tribal Council.

“I called today’s meeting for a few reasons. The first is my request that M’Baku be added to the Tribal Council as a member with full voting rights on all major international decisions,” T’Challa says. “I hope the reasoning is self-explanatory but we can turn this into a debate if you’d like.” When no one takes the opportunity, he nods. “All in favor?”

The leader of the Mining Tribe, Zukelwa, the Merchant Tribe, Lindani, and Khuzani raise their hands with T’Challa. The Border Tribe leader, M’Kathu, does not.

“All opposed,” T’Challa says. M’Kathu raises his hand. “It passes. M’Baku, effective immediately you have full voting rights as a representative of the Jabari people when it comes to major international decisions. Now. The second piece of business involves the addressing of another failure of our ancestors, specifically my grandfather Azzuri. I ask that no one asks questions until I have said my piece.”

It hits M’Baku then what T’Challa intends to do and why Andiswa had insisted he be here. His hands tighten on the arm rests. T’Challa stands and glances at him, as though seeking permission to continue and M’Baku…he nods.

T’Challa begins to talk. He tells the story M’Baku told him at the top of the mountain but instead of the short, emotionally restrained story M’Baku had given him, he gives the true one; the one Andiswa had given him. He walks them through the setting, painting the picture of the scene with quotes from the storytellers, of Azzuri and N’Tando, all pulled from Andiswa’s razor sharp memory. There’s no question he makes a better story teller than M’Baku. Where M’Baku had been a reluctant conduit of history, T’Challa was a willing participant. He bares the pain of the Jabari out for the Tribal Council to see as if it were his own and M’Baku watches as it sucks each of them in.

 He watches as the Queen Mother closes her eyes and bows her head, fingers curling in the fabric of her robes. He sees shame on Zukelwa’s face, disgust on Khuzani’s, and anger in M’Kathu’s…and on Lindani’s, a strained look he cannot decipher. T’Challa reaches the end and silence fills the hall for a few tense moments.

"That cannot be true,” M’Kathu says.

Before anyone can object, Lindani interjects.

“It is,” she says. “My mother told me when I was a young girl. She wanted someone to know the truth.” She looks across to M’Baku and meets his eyes, dipping her chin.

“And why did you not speak up before now?” T’Challa asks, voice calm but M’Baku can see the way his hands curl into fists behind his back that he’s anything but.

“I saw no reason to open up old wounds. It did not seem relevant,” she says.

M’Baku manages to stay silent, but he can’t help the way his lip curls in disgust.

“Why bring it up at all?” M’Kathu asks. “Our heart-shaped herb garden is gone and you want us to give the Jabari something of equal power?”

“Yes,” T’Challa says. “We have made ourselves enemies of the Jabari unjustly and no one would have blamed them for breaking that treaty and launching a full-fledged war against us. If it had been us in their shoes, we would have. We must undo this treaty and create something better or we risk sowing the seeds of our own destruction the way my father did when he left N’Jadaka behind.” He lets the weight of the words hang heavy in the air. “M’Baku and I have already drafted such a treaty.”

He raises a screen before them all, showing the treaty they’d meticulously put together.

“Why were we not consulted before this was drafted?” Khuzani asks.

"I will remind you that I am King. I will also remind you that my grandfather massacred and forced the Jabari into an unjust treaty without a word to any of you before or after,” T’Challa says. “I am trying to undo that legacy by asking for your input now.”

M’Baku had grown used to T’Challa’s quiet, soft-spoken tone that pacified whoever he faced. The steel calm in his voice now was different. If he’d had any doubt left that T’Challa couldn’t or wouldn’t be firm and unmoving the way a king sometimes needed to be, it was gone now.

“You may read the treaty over and offer your input tomorrow. We will take a vote then as well,” T’Challa says. “I’ve included a copy of the original treaty as well as proof that the Jabari’s version of events is true. If you have any questions, please don’t hesitate to reach out to me.”

“I have one question before we go, at the risk of dragging this on too long,” Zukelwa says. She moves her red braids over one shoulder as she looks at M’Baku. “Why did you not break the original treaty? Why come on Challenge Day instead?”

A not insignificant part of him wants to snap at her. He was no Wakandan. He did not throw loyalty to the side the moment a chance presented itself as they did. It was the truthful part of him, not the wise one. He shoves the emotions away and searches for something more diplomatic but with enough truth in it that he gets his point across.

“The Jabari would sacrifice everyone if it meant keeping our history alive,” he says. “Honoring a treaty was a small price to pay for peace and that tradition. Our history will always be more important to us than our war power.”

Zukelwa nods, apparently satisfied. M’Kathu is anything but.

“This new treaty. It does not make the Jabari loyal to Wakanda,” he says. “Only to the Golden Tribe.”

M’Baku decides he’s had enough with being patient. “And why should it not? What have any of you done to earn the trust or respect of the Jabari?”

He looks at T’Challa who gives a simple dip of his chin as permission. Not that M’Baku needed it.

“Your men, M’Kathu, threw all sense of loyalty away in favor of a coup. The challenge had not been completed, but you let ideology blind you to common sense and tradition both,” M’Baku says, then laughs. “That is not a man or Tribe I will swear loyalty to on behalf of my people and the Merchant Tribe? Lindani, I had no quarrel with you before today, but the idea that we would pledge loyalty to the woman and the Tribe she represents when she kept the brutality we experienced a secret is unthinkable.”

“You have made your point, no need to go down the list,” Khuzani says. He looks at the other elders and lifts one shoulder in a shrug. “I would do the same as he. Perhaps there will be room for future negotiations with Wakanda as a whole, but for now he is right. We have done nothing to earn anything but the wrath of the Jabari. Our King has negotiated something better. Take the peace offering.”

“Can it be peace when he can gain the strength to rival the Black Panther?” M’Kathu asks, hand slamming into the arm rest of his chair.

“Anything else would be subjugation.” The Queen Mother’s voice halts the discussion. “The Golden Tribe, and as a result Wakanda, has brutalized and robbed the Jabari of part of their culture for two generations. Any peace moving forward will require equal footing.”

“And what about us? What equal footing do we have?” M’Kathu asks.

“We are Wakandan,” Zukelwa says. “The King, or Queen, represents us and our interests. The Jabari have never truly been Wakandan and this treaty does not make them so. Unless you have plans to usurp the throne or are hiding another blood relative under your robes, there is no reason for any of our tribes to have the power of the Black Panther or White Gorilla.”

M’Baku quite likes Zukelwa.

“So you retain your sovereignty, get access to a powerful weapon, and also get access to Wakandan resources,” M’Kathu says. “How is that fair to the rest of us?”

“If you would like to branch out as your own individual, self-sustaining nation so badly, you’re welcome to try,” T’Challa says. “But do not think we will sell you vibranium weapons so that you may wage war on the world.”

"That…” M’Kathu doesn’t finish whatever he’d been about to say, seeming to think better of it.

"As I said, look over the treaty. We can debate more tomorrow after we’ve all had time to digest this information,” T’Challa says. He offers a hand to his mother and guides them both out of the throne room.

“Come,” Okoye says, nodding at M’Baku. “We have things to discuss.”

M’Baku follows her out, leaving the elders to whatever bickering they see as necessary. Okoye waits until they’re several hallways away before turning to him, relaxing her formal stance.

“My King has requested you wait for him in his quarters,” she says. “And I will happily take you there but I have a proposal first.”

“I admire your strength as a warrior and a loyalist to your country, so I will hear this proposal of yours,” M’Baku says. “You honor tradition better than most Wakandans.”

Okoye frowns. “Perhaps to a fault.”

"Maybe so. The Jabari and I certainly take it further than most would, but that’s who we are for better or worse,” M’Baku says, folding his arms across his chest and leaning against the wall. “So what is this proposal?”

“I would like to personally train with you, and I would like the Dora Milaje to train with your Primes,” she says. “We would have lost Wakanda had it not been for the Jabari. We need a more versatile fighting method and by adding elements of your warriors, I think we can become better. We grew complacent.”

M’Baku doesn’t bother hiding the fact that he’s impressed by the admission. “Not many are willing to admit their faults to anyone let alone an enemy.”

 Okoye smiles, a teasing look in her eyes. “Ah yes, enemies. So what, you and T’Challa…spar in his quarters yes?”

“Of course,” M’Baku says, but he can’t stop his own grin. “We’d be happy to train with you and your warriors. We could use some variety.”

Okoye ducks her head in a quick nod. “We will discuss details at a later date. Follow me.”

She leaves him at the door to T’Challa’s suite, which he could have located on his own just fine from the amount of times he’d been there. Which meant T’Challa had found an excuse for Okoye to corner him with her request. He supposed it was good proof that he’d taken M’Baku’s lesson on listening seriously if he was right.

He doesn’t mean to, but he falls into a light doze sprawled in the middle of T’Challa’s bed. When he wakes, it’s from the bed dipping as T’Challa crawls onto it, still dressed in his formal robes, before face-planting into the pillow beside him. M’Baku turns onto his side, watching the tension leech out of T’Challa.

"You know, Okoye is under the strangest impression,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa shifts just enough to turn his face towards M’Baku. “Oh and what’s that?”

“She believes we’re fucking,” M’Baku says with a scandalized tone. “Of course I corrected her immediately.”  

The serious expression on T’Challa’s face melts away into a smile. “Oh yeah? And what is it that you told her?”

“Sparring. That’s what two Kings would do in their spare time. That’s all we’re doing,” M’Baku says.

“Oh, I see,” T’Challa says. He pushes himself upright and rolls on top of M’Baku, holding his arms down in a loose pin near his head. “I remember it differently. Let me refresh your memory.”

“If you must.”

M’Baku expects something quick. Instead, T’Challa strips them both and takes his time. They kiss for a long time, hands roaming over one another with slow sweeping motions, working each other as their hips rock together. It’s almost comforting in its own way. From there, T’Challa sets about kissing his jaw line, then down his neck with a delicate scrape of his teeth against M’Baku’s throat. He shivers, fingers biting at T’Challa’s hips. He doesn’t like pain, and he doesn’t like marks. He does, however, quite enjoy the teasing threat of teeth at his throat. Instead of adrenaline, it floods his system with arousal.

“You’ve had your fun,” M’Baku says, then moves quick, upending T’Challa and reversing their positions. “Let’s do it my way now.”

He presses T’Challa’s wrists onto the bed on either side of his head, squeezing to indicate he wants T’Challa to keep them there. T’Challa’s tongue flicks out to wet his lips, pupils blown wide. M’Baku likes this look on him. He shifts to the left, opening the bedside drawer where T’Challa keeps the look, then gives him a teasing look when he grabs it and realizes it’s almost empty.

“I’m not going to be ashamed about it,” T’Challa says.

"Oh of course not.”

Instead of doing what he’s sure T’Challa thinks he’s going to do, he settles back on T’Challa’s thighs and then grabs one of his hands, slicking up his fingers. Realization dawns on T’Challa’s face.

“Open me up,” M’Baku says, then leans down and presses their lips together.

T’Challa obliges with an eagerness M’Baku underestimated. He stifles his own noises of pleasure as T’Challa’s fingers slide within him by biting marks over where the ones he’d put there a few days ago had already healed. T’Challa grinds up against him. Sometimes, when M’Baku gets him just right, his fingers stutter to a stop. Then M’Baku has to roll his hips back and prompt T’Challa to keep going. They drive each other crazy, working each other up until they’re both frantic with want and desire and M’Baku fucking loves it, loves _him_ -

M’Baku silences those thoughts by easing himself down onto T’Challa’s cock. T’Challa’s hands slide over his thighs, squeezing. His hips jerk up and then go still without M’Baku prompting and that just makes M’Baku harder and more desperate. He rocks down against him, one hand planted hard in the middle of T’Challa’s chest and the other curled around his own cock, jacking himself fast. He groans out T’Challa’s name as he comes, hips rocking down as he chases the pleasure of T’Challa’s cock within him. T’Challa’s fingers bite into his thighs and M’Baku smirks at the look of desperation in his eyes before leaning down and kissing the begging words from his lips.

“How do you want to come?” he asks, hand cupping T’Challa’s face in a firm grip to reaffirm his control.

“Just…” T’Challa’s hips twitch up, driving his cock up into M’Baku and he can’t help the gasp from how sensitive he is. “This, please…”

M’Baku gives a wordless noise of consent before shifting them, rolling onto his back and guiding T’Challa back between his thighs. T’Challa braces himself with an elbow on either side of M’Baku’s head as he guides himself back in, breath harsh against M’Baku’s lips. M’Baku drags him down for a kiss and rolls his hips up.

“Take what you want,” he says, voice soft against T’Challa’s lips.

For whatever foolish reason, he expects T’Challa to do just that. Instead, T’Challa presses their lips together, sets one hand to M’Baku’s hip and moves into him in a slow grind. It had not been M’Baku’s intention to get pleasure out of this. T’Challa seems intent on giving him just that anyways. M’Baku slides a hand up T’Challa’s back and grips the back of his neck hard as he gives himself over to the slow and hazy feeling that washes through him with each motion.

T’Challa buries his face in M’Baku’s neck, kissing whatever skin he can reach and M’Baku finds himself grateful because he’s not sure he can hide what he’s feeling. When given the opportunity to act selfishly, instead T’Challa did everything he could to make him feel good. Of course, if T’Challa’s soft moans were anything to go by, he was enjoying it too, but it was as though his own pleasure was a simple auxiliary of M’Baku’s, an afterthought. M’Baku clings to him and drags his face up for a kiss, trying to convey in something so small and simple how much he cares. T’Challa seems to get it.

In the end, T’Challa comes first with a soft sigh and gentle whisper of his name. He wiggles a hand between them and gets M’Baku off quick and fast, all the while grinding his softening cock in and letting out quiet gasps as M’Baku squeezes around him. After finds them both tangled up with one another on their sides, come wiped hastily away with some tissues before they slide under the covers.

"We do need to talk,” T’Challa mumbles in a sleepy voice against his chest. “About today.”

“Yes we do. But sleep first,” M’Baku says.

It isn’t long before T’Challa drifts off. M’Baku stays awake for a long time, trying to wrap his head around the significance of what T’Challa had done. It wasn’t just the treaty and his defense of the Jabari. It was that he’d gone out of his way to immerse himself totally and completely into their history and tell their story the way they would, pulling emotion and truth out of the Tribal Council with every word. That devotion to his people…how could he not love this man?

Telling him now seems foolish. The words would ring hollow, as though M’Baku felt obligated after everything T’Challa had done even though nothing could be further from the truth. He didn’t want to delay it further though. He wanted, _needed_ , T’Challa to know how much he cared. If only he’d acknowledged it sooner, not blinded himself with an unnecessary and unwarranted sense of duty.

“Mmhm, maybe we should talk now. You think so loud I cannot rest,” T’Challa says, rubbing his face against M’Baku’s chest.

"You are no telepath unless there is something you need to tell me,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa gives an undignified snort in response. “No, it’s just your heart. It beats quickly and hasn’t slowed at all. So. What is it?”

M’Baku rubs a thumb over a knob in T’Challa’s spine, debating telling the truth. In the last few months T’Challa had been nothing but honest with him, even when he knew M’Baku would disagree, and he’s always been understanding of M’Baku’s anger and inner conflicts when it came to what his people suffered. He owes T’Challa that same honesty and respect.

“I believe I am in love with you. But I do not want you to think I say this only because you have delivered what I wanted politically. I should’ve said it earlier, when I first knew,” M’Baku says, forcing the words to come out as steady as he can.

“And why didn’t you?” T’Challa asks, voice deceptively mild.

M’Baku lets out a bitter laugh and tugs T’Challa closer, resting his chin against the top of his head. “Because I am a fool who believed loving you was a betrayal to the people I am charged with leading and protecting. Andiswa helped me see I was wrong.”

T’Challa hums his acknowledgement of his words but doesn’t respond for a long while. Instead, his fingers trace nondescript shapes along M’Baku’s chest while they both think on the words M’Baku had dragged into the open. Oddly, M’Baku doesn’t find himself worried. He trusts that T’Challa will be kind no matter his reaction.

“I can see where your fear would come from and I do not begrudge you for that,” T’Challa says. “I just wish it had not brought you unnecessary anguish.”

M’Baku sighs and presses his lips tight to the side of T’Challa’s head in a not quite kiss. “I am sorry it took so long to say.”

“For the record,” T’Challa says. “I love you too. Deeply so.”

M’Baku closes his eyes and tries to memorize the feeling in his chest.

 

-.-

 

The Tribal Council agrees to the treaty with little fanfare. Any discussion seems to have taken place outside the room and so when T’Challa asks for a vote, everyone votes in favor save for M’Kathu. M’Baku can’t yet tell if the Border Tribe will continue to be a problem. T’Challa has followed his advice and listened to his people to a greater degree than before, but he has a feeling this whole affair has left a sour taste in M’Kathu’s mouth. He doesn’t feel sympathy for the man. That doesn’t mean he doesn’t understand his frustration.

Queen Ramonda accosts him after the vote, slipping her hand through his arm to make it look as though he’s guiding her when it’s the other way around. He spares a look at T’Challa who mouths an apology with a sheepish smile. He’s quite tired of the women in T’Challa’s life warning him away or making demands of him, but he supposes he can’t begrudge a mother the opportunity. She leads him to her study, Ayo at their heels, a silent shadow.

Her study is brightly lit, the walls a warm and inviting green color with white wood for the shelves, desk, and chairs. A large floor to ceiling window looks out over the city. She withdraws from him to stand by the window, hands cradling her elbows. M’Baku takes the hint and stands beside her.

“My son told me that you loved one another,” she says.

“Yes,” M’Baku says, wary of extrapolating for fear of saying the wrong thing.

“Did you say it to get what you wanted from him?”

His patience snaps without warning. “Yes, of course I did. This has all been an elaborate plot to win your trust and that of your son’s so that I may regain a power legally that I have every right to take by force just so I can lead war against Wakanda.” He folds his arms across his chest as he gives her an assessing look. “Months ago, when you believed your son dead you offered me the heart-shaped herb. You trusted me then. What changed?”

Ramonda, like Nakia before her, does not seem impressed by his display, but he can see something like embarrassment in her eyes.

"You are right of course. I know you and T’Challa have the same goal of peace. I…” She shakes her head.

M’Baku gives a heavy sigh, shoving his temper aside because justified or not, it isn’t useful here. “You were betrayed by family and country. I can understand your caution even with evidence to the contrary but perhaps I can assuage some of your fear.”

She offers him a small, but regal, smile. “That would be welcome.”

"The Jabari wanted war with Wakanda. Our anger has been festering for two generations – it robbed me of a relationship with both my parents,” M’Baku says. “I opted for the Challenge Day instead. I knew then what I still believe to be true. War will just continue the cycle of loss started and ended by Azzuri and I have no interest in that. This course of action restores the Jabari’s history and honor. It will go a long way in solidifying peace, no matter the relations between myself and your son.”

"And what if something happens? If he decides it is best to marry and have a child in order to have a true heir of royal blood?” she asks.

M’Baku doesn’t bother stopping the way his lips curl into a sneer. “You would do well to stop insulting me by implying I would be one to sacrifice lives for a slighted heart, Queen Mother.”

He hears Ayo move and has his own staff off his back before she can get close. Ramonda holds up a hand towards her.

“It is fine, Ayo, he is no threat,” Ramonda says. “King M’Baku. My apologies. I’ve let my concern excuse behavior that is entirely unwarranted.”

M’Baku hesitates for a moment, just to make her sweat, then straps his staff back in place and nods. “Apology accepted. If that is all, I must return to my people.”

She dips her head in a nod. “Of course. Thank you.”

M’Baku heads for the door, determined to put the awkward experience behind him.

 

-.-

 

M’Baku returns to the Jabari a hero. Part of him wishes T’Challa were there, but it’s swamped by the pure joy and elation he feels floating from celebration to celebration between homes and streets among his people. It feels the way the world does when the sun breaks through the clouds after a blizzard, the way tension breaks after the height of a storm. The rest can wait.

 

-.-

 

It’s two weeks before M’Baku scales the mountain alongside Andiswa, two fellow storytellers Inathi and Uviwe, and T’Challa. They climb in silence, the weight of what they are about to do resting heavy on all of their shoulders. M’Baku had learned the story from Andiswa alongside Inathi and Uviwe and now they would be here to observe and tell the story themselves, passing down a tale not of grief and strife but of healing and mending. So he hoped.

The winds are still at the summit. The great doors before them seem heavy and immovable. They’d been shut all his life, all his father’s life. The Sacred Tree within had rebelled against its entrapment, sinking its roots and branches into the mountain in an effort to tear it apart but the mountain had held firm all these years. And now, they would free it once more.

“You remember what I showed you?” Andiswa asks.

“I couldn’t forget,” M’Baku says. He turns to look at her, wrapped tight in her blankets. “But this is your victory. You should be the one to set us free again.”

Andiswa’s eyes shine with tears and M’Baku is sure his own eyes reflect the same. She lets her blankets unravel from her shoulders and Uviwe takes them from her, holding them secure and warm as Andiswa walks across the snow with her sacred wood staff in hand. She taps it once against the ground, then shifts her feet across the ground and comes to stand ram-rod straight with the staff in front of her. T’Challa edges closer to him and when he offers a hand, M’Baku takes it. He feels like he’s flying apart. Everything he’s ever wanted is about to come true and yet all he wants to do is fall to his knees and weep. T’Challa, somehow, keeps him standing.

Andiswa moves then, feet tapping out a rhythm, slow and uncomplicated. It builds though and she spins the staff once before bringing it down and the ground seems to shudder for just a moment. In a few more beats, she’s moving across the ground at a faster pace, the staff striking the ground in a rhythm M’Baku feels in his blood and as they watch, the roots and branches begin to twist and retract. Andiswa moves faster, each crack of her staff against the snow covered stone making the tree within move in response. Her feet move in an increasingly complicated manner, staffing spinning too fast to see through her hands and the air as it strikes the rock again and again.

The stone doors tremble and groan, gravel and snow tumbling down as the doors inch their way open. M’Baku’s throat tightens as stone scrapes against stone and cool blue light beings to spill through.

The staff strikes the ground at a near frantic pace and as the doors open wider, they reveal that it’s the tree branches themselves pushing the doors open as they extent with each hit. And the light…the light spills from hundreds if not thousands of blue heart-shaped herbs that cover the branches, the roots that write along the stone ground of the cavern, and the trunk of the Sacred Tree itself that has not been seen in two generations. Andiswa stumbles and M’Baku moves fast, catching her before she can fall. Her breath comes in ragged pants and she smiles as she passes the staff into his hands.

“You know the rest. I cannot continue,” she says.

M’Baku swallows and stares towards the cavern. The doors are almost open and he knows the dance, had it carved into his muscles like scars all through his childhood in hopes that one day he’d be able to see it for himself. He takes the staff and guides Andiswa to Uviwe who wraps her in the blankets and holds her close.

Before he turns back, T’Challa catches his eyes. There, on his cheeks, are tears once more like the last time he stood here with M’Baku. He’s tired of tears. He steels himself and turns back to take Andiswa’s place.

The beat thuds in his chest and he keeps his eyes fixed on the tree as he begins the steps where Andiswa left off. It feels as though he’s been doing the dance wrong his whole life. This was the way it was meant to be done. The staff hits the ground and the rhythm resonates within him and back to the Sacred Tree and he can feel it like a living, breathing that that is finally waking. The branches lengthen, wood groaning and creaking as the stone shrieks, and there, the final beat strikes like a roll of thunder, reverberating through the ground, their feet, their blood. It is only through leaning on the staff that he stays standing.

“My King, it is…” Inathi chokes back a noise that sounds like a sob.

M’Baku reaches out and draws her close, unable to move his eyes from the sight. “The Sacred Tree, yes.”

For a long moment, it’s just the four of them clustered together and staring into the cavern. M’Baku doesn’t dare step closer for fear it’s all a dream that will evaporate if he looks too closely, and it isn’t until T’Challa touches his arm that he startles out of his contemplation.

“The doors…is it safe for them to be open with the herbs?” he asks.

Andiswa laughs, the noise sounding harsh though she doesn’t mean it in such a way. “What, are the Wakandans the only ones allowed to have technology?”

She gives M’Baku a pointed look and he steps forward, spinning the staff and then tapping it in a rapid-fire rhythm against the ground. The barrier over the entrance shimmers and fades.

“We protect the flowers from the harsh air, but they’re meant to have sunlight,” Andiswa says. “It is no small miracle that they still live when locked away for so long.”

"You should go in,” T’Challa says.

“I cannot,” M’Baku says. “Not until the ritual.”

“We will take it from here,” Andiswa says, taking the staff from M’Baku. “You two should get back.”

“Will you be okay?” M’Baku asks, unable to help his concern.

“I do not intend to die from a little exhaustion,” she says. “Go. We will see you tonight.”

M’Baku nods and draws her close, pressing a kiss to her forehead and then stepping back. It takes more strength than he’s ever needed before to walk away from the Sacred Tree and his teacher, but with T’Challa at his side, it’s bearable.

 

-.-

 

M’Baku stares at the ceiling, one arm tucked underneath his head and the other loosely curled over T’Challa’s shoulders where he lays sprawled out on top of him. The maelstrom of emotions that had started on the mountain hasn’t eased. It dogs his mind even as his eyes ache and try to close.

“Would it help to talk?” T’Challa asks.

“I don’t know what to say.”

T’Challa makes a thoughtful noise and presses a kiss to M’Baku’s chest before untangling himself and sitting up, feet jammed under his back and bony knees digging into his ribs and hip. He picks up M’Baku’s hand and trails his fingers down the length of his arm.

“N’Jadaka told me that the Wakandan sunset was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen,” T’Challa says. He doesn’t look at M’Baku, instead examining his fingers even as his light touch continues to slide up and down his arm at a slow and meandering pace, a point of connection. “For a moment, everything was perfect. Then, he killed himself. But sometimes I still dream of that moment, those few seconds where we sat side by side like brothers looking over our kingdom and watching the sun set together.”

 M’Baku sits up, stopping T’Challa’s wandering hand and holding it in his own. Tears, just a few, splash against their skin.

“What I’m trying to say is that it isn’t like any moment has to be just happy or sad. It can be both. It’s not wrong if you’re upset even though you’ve given your people what they’ve longed for.”

“I have nothing to be upset about,” M’Baku says.

“No?” T’Challa looks up. “What about a strained relationship with your father? The loss of your mentor’s childhood and innocence? You can mourn for those even as you rejoice in a new beginning.”

“It feels wrong.”

T’Challa presses their foreheads together, then their lips for just a moment. “You’re just fine M’Baku. Everything is going to be okay.”

M’Baku leans into his embrace. It doesn’t fix anything, but it feels nice just the same.

 

-.-

 

M’Baku enters the cavern containing the Sacred Tree flanked by Uviwe and Inathi the next day. Outside, a unit of the Primes guard the entrance in ceremonial dress that matches what M’Baku himself wears – a white ceremonial robe decorated with beads made from the sacred wood. At the base of the tree, Andiswa sits in a cluster of roots and before her, a tangling bed of roots dips into the earth like a hammock. The blue herb makes the whole area glow in an otherworldly light.

Uviwe and Inathi part to stand on either side of the whole as M’Baku steps down into it as his grandfather had before him. His heart pounds out a staccato rhythm in his chest. He doesn’t try to conceal it as he lays down among the roots and stares up at Andiswa.

“I, Andiswa, daughter of Daluxolo, call upon our ancestors as I deliver to M’Baku, grandson of N’Tando the heart-shaped herb,” she says. She leans forward, holding a bowl full of the thick, blue liquid from the herb to his lips. “Take him to the ancestral plane. Bestow upon him the strength of the White Gorilla.”

The liquid burns like ice through him. The cold freezes him, seeping through is blood and into his muscles, a frozen fire that chokes him and creeps towards his heart. The last thing he sees is Andiswa’s smile.

 

-.-

 

When he wakes, it’s to the smell of dirt and the cloying sent of wood rot. He claws at the roots around his limbs and covering his face, heart thudding and breath coming fast until finally he’s free. He coughs, dragging himself out of the pit and onto the solid ground. Before him, the Sacred Tree towers overhead, branches stretching like gnarled fingers into the night sky that glows with a deep blue hue.

He is alone.

He turns in a full circle, looking for someone, anyone, but all he finds are twisted dead roots and piles of rotting vegetation. Panic seizes him but before he can move again, a hand touches his shoulder. He whirls, fist already moving. A man he’s only ever seen in photos catches it.

“N’Tando,” he says.

His grandfather is taller than him, but only just. He’s leaner than M’Baku is, his hair a light grey and chest scarred with cuts of all sizes.

“Hello,” N’Tando says, his smile pained. “I hoped I would be able to meet you one day.”

“What is this place?” he demands. “This cannot be…”

N’Tando’s eyes hold a sorrow that makes his chest ache, makes him want to yell and rage but the ice in his veins keeps him from moving. “It is. We have done what we could to keep the Sacred Tree alive but…it has been decades since the prayers of our people reached us. I am the only one left.”

"You mean to say that to keep the Sacred Tree alive the rest…our ancestors gave themselves to it? They sacrificed this place?” M’Baku shakes his head. “Why?”

“We had to,” N’Tando says. “If there was going to be any hope of a future for the Jabari, the Sacred Tree and the blue heart-shaped herb had to survive.”

Fury burns away the ice, a roar tearing free from his chest as he whirls away and slams his fist into the trunk of the tree. Tears chase the noise and he falls to his knees, a grief he’s never known swamping out every thought until there’s nothing left but loss and pain because it had all been for nothing. There was no peace here. Just death and rot and memories.

“I was wrong,” he whispers.

“About what?” N’Tando asks, kneeling beside him.

“I thought…I thought peace would bring us salvation,” he says, fingers twisting in the roots in a failed attempt to feel tethered to something real. “But I was wrong. I should have listened to the people. This is not peace. This is…we need vengeance.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?” M’Baku shouts, pushing his grandfather as he scrambles to his feet. “They’ve taken everything from us! They destroyed even this!”

N’Tando closes his eyes, every wrinkle and line in his face somehow more prominent. “You are at a crossroads as I was. You can let rage consume you or you can chart a course that allows your people to thrive.”

“You want me to let this stand?” M’Baku asks, gesturing towards the rotting tree. He thinks of Ramonda and her suspicions, of M’Kathu and his hatred. “There is nothing wrong with justified rage-“

“Your anger, your pain, it is all justified but M’Baku, you are a king. You do not get to act as others would,” N’Tando says. “What, did you think I locked away the Sacred Tree because it was easy? Because my pain did not _demand_ justice?”

"No…no, I-“

“The role of a leader is to make the right decision even when it hurts the most,” N’Tando says, hands grasping M’Baku’s shoulders and holding him firm. “I did what I did because it was the only way forward. A war would destroy us all. But what I did, what your ancestors all sacrificed, do you know what it saved?”

M’Baku swallows and shakes his head.

N’Tando gives a strained smile, hand sliding up to cup his face. “It saved you. It gave us a chance to start over. Come with me.”

Having no other choice, M’Baku obeys. N’Tando leads him away from the tree and into the empty plain. They walk, soundless, through the waving grass until finally N’Tando stops, holding out an arm so M’Baku can go no further. M’Baku looks down and there, in a small clearing between the blades of grass, is a sapling.

“Our sacrifice saved our history in Andiswa,” N’Tando says, kneeling once more. M’Baku follows his example. “It saved the herb and Sacred Tree in the physical plane. It bought us time to wait for peace between our tribes to be found once more and when those doors cracked open do you know what happened? This sprouted.”

The all-consuming fire that had only moments ago threatened to burn him, banks. Understanding takes its place.

“The Sacred Tree, it brings our prayers to you,” M’Baku says. “The prayer gives power to the ancestors, who in turn give power to the Sacred Tree. With the doors shut, the cycle was cut off but now that they’re open…”

“It is only a matter of time before this place will be healed once more, yes,” N’Tando says. He sets a steadying hand on M’Baku’s shoulder. “If we had gone to war, we would have died and there would have been no prayer, no ancestral plane, no Sacred Tree. I was foolish to even entertain the thought. But now…now we can recover, but only if you make the hard decision.”

M’Baku stares at the small sapling. “How did my father do it? Carry this grief and anger for so long? How do I do it now for the good of our people when forgiveness feels so impossible?”

“Your father had no one,” N’Tando says. “The pain was too fresh to entertain the thought of peace so he withdrew and for that, he never made it here to rest with us. You almost did the same.”

M’Baku thinks of T’Challa, his desperation to understand, his willingness to learn, his acceptance of responsibility for the pain the Jabari had suffered at his grandfather’s hands. Empathy extended where none had been before. Loving him had not been a disrespect to his ancestors, or at least he had thought so until he’d seen this.

“Would he not be by your side, feeling your loss as keenly as you feel it yourself?” N’Tando asks.

The night before, as T’Challa clutched his hand and spoke of N’Jadaka’s pain as though it were his own. A man who had tried only to destroy everything he loved, he had extended empathy to, had offered mercy and peace, had wept for because he understood what had set N’Jadaka on his path. Faced with hatred, T’Challa offered a moment of peace, a calm sunset.

“He offered forgiveness to his greatest enemy,” M’Baku whispers.

"It was something I could not give,” N’Tando says. “Something your father could not give. But perhaps you can.”

M’Baku looks at the sapling and wonders if he can do it. His anger is righteous. No one would blame him for lashing out, not even T’Challa.

“Forgiveness is not a weakness,” N’Tando says. “You can forgive a transgression and bring down your wrath to any who dares to trespass again. It is not one or the other.”

_“It isn’t like any moment has to be just happy or sad.”_

“What if it doesn’t bring me peace?”

“That is your burden to bare,” N’Tando says. “It is not an easy one. But you will have people willing to help you carry it.”

M’Baku nods, his resolve solidifying. “I understand. Thank you.”

“When you return, a life time from now, you will see the fruits of your labor,” N’Tando says. “It will be worth it. I swear this to you.”

And despite the turbulence that had been in his chest, M’Baku knows he is right.

 

-.-

 

He wakes, gasping for breath. Uviwe and Inathi haul him to his feet, holding him steady as he gets his bearings and only releasing him when he gives a short nod. He can feel it now in his bones, an untested, sleeping strength that wants to break free after too long of a slumber and he takes a few deep breaths to will the instinct down. When he focuses again, Andiswa stands before him.

“Are you okay?” she asks.

M’Baku nods. “I will be.”

 

-.-

 

That night, he holds T’Challa tight to him. He feels numb and overwhelmed all at once, his mind turning over everything he’d seen and felt in the ancestral plane, and through it all T’Challa holds him, constrains him, a lighthouse protecting him from bashing up against the rocks.

“Can you tell me?” T’Challa asks as he wipes tears from M’Baku’s eyes not for the first time that night.

“Not yet,” M’Baku says.

T’Challa nods and just keeps holding him.

 

-.-

 

T’Challa takes him to see the sunset a few days later. They’ve been training the way only two enhanced warriors can alongside Andiswa’s hut under her watchful eye. Each day, the anger M’Baku feared would overwhelm him leaks away, a drop at a time, and each day T’Challa makes a point of holding him close whenever he can.

“It’s a good sunset. The Jabari sunset is better,” he says.

T’Challa throws his head back and laughs. “Of course you’d say that. I cannot win at anything with you.”

“Did I ruin the moment?” M’Baku asks.

“Maybe a little,” T’Challa says, but he nudges M’Baku’s side and offers a smile. “But it’s okay. I’ve been worried about you…”

“I know. I’ve just got a lot to think about,” M’Baku says. “I suppose I thought it would be simpler, healing. My people have what they want, I have someone who loves me and accepts me with all my flaws. But…” He shakes his head, not sure how to articulate his thoughts any further than he already has.

“I understand,” T’Challa says. “To some extent anyways.”

M’Baku looks out at the sky once more. “How did you do it? Offer N’Jadaka a moment of peace when he wanted to destroy everything you loved?”

T’Challa leans against him. “I think…I think we are all a tragedy away from becoming Killmonger. One misstep, one moment of failure, and we can be set down the wrong path. If I had given into my anger and sought vengeance when my father was murdered, I would have killed an innocent man carrying a burden I will never understand. From there, who is to say I would not mete out worse judgment because I felt justified? Knowing that we are all so close to that moment…I think that is what made it easy to offer him peace. I would want someone to do the same for me, even if they had to put an end to me for whatever wrong I had wrought on the world.”

M’Baku hums thoughtfully to himself. It’s certainly something to contemplate, even though he’s not sure he agrees with the assessment. “You are wise beyond your years.”

“So I’ve been told. I don’t know if that helps you with whatever you’re struggling with,” T’Challa says. He slips a hand under M’Baku’s chin, turning his face so their eyes meet. “I’m with you every step of the way though.”

That, M’Baku thinks, will be enough.


End file.
